


i didn't have your back (so i'll give you mine)

by betteronpaper



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Blood, Caretaking, Confessions, F/F, Feelings, Healing, Not Happy, Punishment, Slight Angst?, Torture, but the warning is there, general depiction of violence, i dont think?, i guess it's hopeful now, idk if its graphic or not, im so bad with knowing what my fics are, lashing, like its not heavy or anything, not a happy fic, slightly hopeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5206697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betteronpaper/pseuds/betteronpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the events of the mountain have consequences, and lexa pays in kind, with clarke there to care after.</p><p>or</p><p>victory is made on the back of sacrifice</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello again! so thought i'd finish up this, because it had been half done for a month or so, anyway. its not fluff :( if you want some fluff, maybe the end to balance the negative feels, you can go back to my previous oneshot of these sleepy babys.
> 
> this idea came from Outlander, where a character Jaime has a serious flogging and its cruel and gruesome and bloody but beautifully done. so yes. ahem. i hope, despite the content, that it's good? enjoyable (idk if thats the right word for this)? let me know?
> 
> unbetad as usual

 

                  The sky was a godless grey; the morning humid and wet, the sun unseen within Polis. Where once the city was alive with the sounds of children running and laughing, the clinging and clanging of metal, the bustling of people in markets and the smell of food, ready for purchase, now the city was deathly silent. The people, the thousands of them gathered and were watching, were unanimously quiet. The world did not dare make a sound, though it was not soundless. 

                The flogging, as whip curled and slashed against skin – sick and harsh and unforgiving – echoed throughout the city square. It reached her ears and the dread within Clarke lurched, vile and thick within her organs, heavy on her chest, as she made her way through the crowd. She didn’t know what she was feeling, only that it was a turbulent of emotions that overall was uncomfortable and _wrong_ and _why Lexa?_

                Clarke didn’t know, couldn’t conclude though her mind whirled, wired and worked to understand, to make sense. But the matter was there were things that while understood left one’ speechless, left one’ dumbfounded and seemingly uncomprehending of a matter. When Clarke, along with her companions – Abby, Bellamy, Raven – reached the front where Lincoln, Octavia and Kane were already standing, still and tense, by Indra, and her eyes befell the scene before her, it was such a time.

                “Oh my God.”

                Her mother was not so inarticulate, having voiced Clarke’s thoughts, voiced one of them. They stood there, tight lipped or parted mouth, staring fixed and disbelieving, fighting back words of protest and senses of right and wrong, despite their disdain for the Commander. Clarke felt like she could scream, could boil, in anger. But at Lexa, or at the situation, at herself, she didn’t know. She didn’t know anything that day.

                “You were meant to arrive next week,” Indra stated, voice steady, calm, and pertaining that subtle contempt with eyes unmoving from Lexa’s frame.

                Lexa, who had hands tied to a wooden poll, shirt cut from the back; Lexa who was bound and bleeding, her blood a puddle she stood on, slipped on. Her back was a river of it, of the flowing, thick, liquid; red and staining as the scars that would be formed. Clarke looked and saw, transfixed and horrified at Lexa, at her back – the entirety of it. Her back was a galaxy of pain, was a painting, with each cut an exploding nebula, a permanent stroke, with skin torn and ripping – the whip, the crack of its wrath, the totality and catastrophe of the lashes, shredding her being.

_You were not meant to see this_ , was what Indra was saying, Clarke knew, and the thought twisted her stomach further as a knife in the gut, ragged and ripping.

                “She hasn’t screamed,” Octavia said, voice hoarse, in quiet awe, and she swallowed disbelief.

                “How long?” Abby asked, because Clarke could still find no words, could not speak, and she was reminded of the night of the Mountain when Lexa left her there, grief stricken and betrayed; and she was speechless then too.

                “This is the last day.”

                “You mean – ”

                “One hundred lashes a day, for seven days. Seven hundred lashes for two hundred and fifty Grounders, seventy Sky People, and three hundred and eighty Mountain Men,” Indra explained, interrupted. “The Coalition required appeasement, assurance.”

                “I don’t understand,” Clarke murmured, because she didn’t.

                The whip continued to snap, crack, and she wondered how many more times she would hear the sound.

                “Though we have made arrangements for peace in the coming meeting, the Coalition feared you would seek retribution for the betrayal, would blame Heda for having to reap the Mountain. Though it was Heda’s decision, should you – who have defeated the Mountain – retaliated, war would arise, and people on both sides would suffer. Blood must have blood. Heda is taking punishment for her people. In this we hope blood has been paid.”

                “I don’t… we don’t want…This is torture. She could die.”

                Clarke had thought of killing Lexa in her months away, in her anger, in her guilt and blame and despair; had imagined Lexa dying, by her hand, perhaps slowly, but not this: a demonstration, an inhumane practice that served nothing but excruciating pain, the vibrations shooting through Lexa’s back and up the floggers arm, the force of it all wrenching, malicious and cruel.

                “The Ice Queen also wanted punishment for the sacrifice of TonDc. Lexa agreed.”

                “How could anyone agree to be subjected to this?”  

                “Atonement. Honour. Strength. Though you live, Heda made the decision to sacrifice your lives for her people, and to sacrifice TonDc to finish the war with the Mountain. This is to serve as a reminder.”

                “She didn’t defeat the Mountain Men, she didn't kill them,” Bellamy interjected. 

                “No.”

                “Then why?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “When does this end?”

                “It ends when she reaches seven hundred lashes, or she orders it to stop.”

_Seven hundred lashes. This shouldn’t be happening. How are you alive, Lexa?_

                Clarke swallowed her heart that ached for Lexa. Clarke gazed on, jaw clenched and war simmering inside her.

 

                Lexa’s legs were weak, were crumpled beneath her weight; were unsteady on the slip and slope of her blood with the poll as her only support for standing. She was not aware of the world, was not aware of her title, of her people, in her torment. It was gone and dead. Her existence was pain, was aching agony and stinging strikes. It had been this way for seven days with hardly any rest and she could barely remember a time before it, could not think of a time that would be after it. How she was alive, she did not know.

                She might have ordered it all to stop had she a voice, might have screamed had she the energy. But when she opened her mouth all that arose from her throat was coughs and spurts and spits of blood. Breathing was difficult, was a conscious effort, and her lungs hurt, as if burning, and her eyes were closed and heavy, and should she allow it, Lexa was sure they may never open again. But she thought of Clarke, of seeing the girl within days, of blue eyes cold and distant, harsh and unforgiving, and thought how she needed to ensure the girl lived, that her people lived, that they would not be mistreated in her death. She thought of possible war and thought of life being more than just surviving and thought how her people deserved that. 

                So her knuckles whitened as her hands tightened around the poll, and she righted herself, grimaced at the lashing and the movement of her muscles, tender and torn, and she breathed, she endured. She did all this, but she did not scream.

                *

                Sometime later, after day and duty was done, and her people thought her a god, Lexa laid front first on her bed, resting, alive. In the confines of her room, in the company of her healers, of Clarke, she screamed. She cried out when the wounds were cleaned, cried out as her back was washed and stitched and sewn together, a fixed tapestry. Clarke helped, whispered encouraging words, sweet nothings, because she could not think of the past or the future when faced with the present of the day, of Lexa, near death, so bloody and raw and broken and her own heart bleeding.

                Now Lexa was resting. Clarke looked at her back and saw the tattoo there, now cracked, like a fragmented mirror. It was beautiful, tragically and tenderly so. Were Lexa’s skin and back and bones not so sensitive, Clarke would have traced the ink, would have touched. An angry part of her was tempted, a dark part of her wandered, how much it would burn Lexa, if one was to prod and push. But it was a small and fleeting feeling, a thought.

                “Clarke,” Lexa spoke, a little hoarsely.

                Her eyes were slow to open and quick to close, and Clarke was there in an instant, pulling away hairs from the exhausted woman’s face.

                “Shush, rest, Lexa,” she whispered.

                “You are not real.”

                Her voice was weak, and the blonde was almost surprised she had a voice at all. But Lexa had defied many thoughts today, Clarke mused, as she gathered a warm, wet clothe to wipe away the sweat. Her fight not yet done, they had to look out for a fever, for heat and sweat on skin. She wondered if the fighting would ever be over, and not in the sense of death.

                “I am real.”

                “No.”

                Clarke shook her head, fought a smile despite herself, despite everything. Her voice was low, was smooth, was kind.

                “Okay.”

                “You do not care for me.”

                “You should be resting,” Clarke chastised, gently.

                “I am. I am dreaming.”

                “Is that so?”

                “You would not,” Lexa paused, heaved a painful breath, “care for me, otherwise.”

                She couldn’t deny that she would not be there, at least if it weren’t for Lexa’s condition. But caring, Clarke always cared.

                “And what about the pain? Doesn’t that make this real?”

                “My dreams have mostly been of pain.”

                Clarke paused, felt her eyes sting, a little, at the corners. She would not cry, but the feeling was enough to recognise the emotion, the reaction.  She breathed, revealing something weak, something honest, of letting something heavy inside out.

                “Me too.”

                A minute passed, or more – Clarke was not counting. The room was silent, was solitary save for herself and the Commander, Lexa. But then Lexa spoke, and Clarke was shocked, surprised, though simultaneously not. Still, her eyes widened, pupils dilated, at the words.

                “I love you.”

_I love you._

                It made sense – it was one of those things that made sense, but still left someone dumbstruck. But Clarke was not so speechless.

                “What?”

                Nor, articulate, in this instance, in that moment.

                “I love you.”

                Lexa was looking at her now, face resting sideways on the pillow, looking young, innocent, yet old, for all the wounds on her back, the stories her scars told. Clarke blinked, and fought tears again – out of joy or despair, in this moment she didn’t know. And when Clarke replied, it was with calmness, a thread of disappointment, laces of sadness, of longing; because despite all her anger, bitterness, there was very much love for this worn warrior too. Clarke, briefly, partly, wondered if this was a moment of pity. But Lexa – Lexa could never pity her.  They understand one another too much, for pity.

                “You’re just saying that… because you think this is isn’t real.”

                “I could never say it awake.”

                “Why not?” Clarke sniffed, shifted a stray hair of Lexa’s again, and tucked enough to see her face clearly.

                “For you. You do not love me, you hate me. I do not wish to burden you with my feelings. You carry enough, as it is.”

                “Oh, Lexa,” Clarke leaned forward, and though Lexa’s position made it difficult, pressed her lips to the skin of the woman’s forehead, rested it there,  a moment, as if she could transfer all her feelings through it. Because Lexa was so precious like this, so beautiful in her vulnerabilities and her consideration that it almost breaks Clarke in how her heart expands whenever she was presented with such delicacy. “Your love – that… that isn’t heavy. It’s big, but, it’s one of the lighter things.”

                “But you do not love me.”

                “It’s not… it’s complicated. But I feel so many things, right now, for you. Not just love. I need to work through things. I’m not...”

                “Can you make it simple?”

                “How?” Clarke sighed, dejected, almost.

                “Do you love me?”

                Clarke swallowed, an invisible lump in her throat, an ache of a different kind. She swallowed back the pain and the heartache, separated the threads of her feelings that intertwined a tapestry, and answered honestly. She spoke and it was one of the most truthful things she had ever said.

                “Yes.”

                Relief, acceptance, washed over Lexa, filled her heavy body, and her eyes closed at the admission, “I can bear your hate then, until love is enough.”

                “And what if I’m never ready?”

                “Then you are never ready, but I am always yours.”

                The blonde kissed the forehead again, though this time she was quick, she did not linger, and her eyes and face titled to the ceiling as she blinked back her emotions.

                “Rest, Lexa.”

                “I am, Clarke.”

                Lexa’s eyes were closed, and by her slow breathing, the stillness of her body, the subtle rise and fall of her back, it was apparent she was now asleep, was resting. Clarke watched and wondered if she wanted Lexa to think this was all a dream in the morning, wondered that even if Lexa knew it wasn’t, nothing would be said. She watched and wondered for the future, thought how her stomach churned and her heart screamed at Lexa’s torture and how her heart beats, alive and large, at Lexa’s love, and how she was at Lexa’s side now, despite it all; despite the hate, anger, bitterness – exhausting things that are heavy, that are an effort, to carry for too long, where love, forgiveness and kindness are much lighter. She thought how she fought the urge to kiss lips in comfort, because those were lovely lips, even red with blood. She thought all this, and had a thought it would be easier later.


	2. the way she tells me i’m hers and she is mine (the blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they've got each others backs, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a couple of people request for a sequel, so I typed it up for you! I hope it's to your liking, that I did justice to whatever expectations you thought. Let me know!
> 
> unbetad

              “Lexa, stop it.”

              She heard the command in the words, and Lexa’s jaw clenched at being ordered, at being in the state she was in; tense, a predator in a cage. She wanted to bite something. She was patient, it was one of her virtues, but she could not stand to be so immobile for long.  Her muscles, aching as they were, prowled, flexed, she couldn’t stand the feeling of nothingness that engulfed her, irrational as it was. So Lexa swallowed the pain and gripped tightly to the table, leaning, her heart beating fast, lungs expanding in her deep breathing. It hurt to be alive.

              “Sit back down. Now, Lexa.”

              Her eyes drifted, glared, to Clarke, who was staring at her, immovable and firm, and it was a battle of wills between them. They stared at each other, for a moment, which felt an eternity. Lexa refused to relent, and she did not have the patience for those eyes, not today. Still, she could not stare at them for long, despite the infinity of them, the pull to drown and swim in, those eyes blue and deep and a storm. She did not have the patience for them; they haunted her, with words of never being ready but _yes_ Clarke loves Lexa, and Lexa loves Clarke. But Lexa was weak and she still could not be sure it wasn’t all a dream, that it wasn’t real. But there was something different in those eyes from before Clarke left Polis for her people, and now, after. There was less hate. Still, things were tense, and Lexa was tense from her back, her recovery. It ached and crawled and she felt it all.

              “I have things to do.”

              “You have people to take care of those things. You’re barely even four days healing, and you’re moving?”

              “I am _Heda_ , I should have been at the meeting, Clarke. I should be overseeing my people.”

              “The meeting was fine. We can go over it later. Just - stop being like this. You can oversee them once you’re stronger.”

              “I am not weak,” Lexa almost snarled.

              “And your people know that!” Clarke stepped closer, angry, frustrated, “They think you’re – some – some kind of – _superhuman_. God, Lexa, you could have so _easily_ died. And now you’re tempting death again by aggravating your wounds!”

              “I told you, I do not fear death,” Lexa stated, bristled.

              “Maybe you don’t. But I do,” Clarke paused, eyes wavering, emotional, and when she spoke next, it was scratchy, raw; truth stuck in her throat. “ _I_ do, Lexa. I fear death. I fear _yours_.”

              And the words echoed in Lexa’s mind. _Do you love me?_ Then, Clarke’s voice quiet, honest. _Yes._

              Lexa wouldn’t believe it.

              “Yes, Spirits forbid one of my generals’ takes my place. Correct?”

              She bit out the words, an echo of a time where everything was still new, between sky and ground, between her and Clarke, useful for her station alone; and it was an attack, a lashing out of feeling stuck, oppressed and useless. It was words born of self-depreciation, and Clarke saw it, saw it all, the spite and bitterness and _pain_ in Lexa’s eyes, because there are parts of her that do not think herself worthy as a human being, only valued for her title. Clarke wanted to cry and yell and collapse in Lexa’s embrace because _how_ could she possibly _think_ Clarke wanted anyone _but_ her for anything?

              “ _Y_ _es,_ Spirits forbid! Do I need to spell it out for you?  You’re human, Lexa. Despite what your people may think, you aren’t a god. But you,” and here, Clarke took let go of breath, exhaled, calmer, “you _can’t_ die. Everything would fall apart if you did.”

              But she was angry too. It’s an easy thing to latch onto, however heavy it is, because it burns hot and strong, it can be easily fuelled once started, and it had been a familiar weight for a long while, for Clarke. Anger, grief and pain – they became familiars, and she felt them all again, then, along with fear. This fear was new, this fear of death. Something could happen to Lexa at any moment, and _what then?_ What of her people, the sky people, and the Coalition? What of Clarke? She didn’t know and that scared her, had her heart trembling, a little.

              “Everything, Lexa. You can’t. I… I _need_ you to be okay, okay? Not just – not just as _Heda._ Not just for your people, for peace. Please, Lexa. Just, take it easy? Please. For me.”

              Clarke was in front of her now, hands on her arms, holding, reassuring, as blue eyes implored. There was tenderness, and Lexa could not look away, she wanted to drown. She wanted to kiss. Lexa's eyes flicked down and Clarke seemed to then remember herself, because her touch flinched away, not shockingly, but quickly, an inch, enough. Lexa saw it, and it was suddenly a different pain that took hold of her being, of loneliness and rejection, and _it was not real, it was a dream_ and Lexa relented for the day. She nodded, minutely, and that earned her a smile, small at it was, a ghost of one, from Clarke. Lexa thought she knew sadness in loving someone and them being gone. But she didn’t know it as well she thought. It was loving someone right in front of you, and them not touching you. It was loving someone and it being fruitless. She felt such sadness then.

              “It’ll get easier,” Clarke said, hovering for a moments help, as Lexa made her way back to the bed.

              “My back will heal.”

_My heart will not._

              *

              It was quiet. The kind that was peaceful, that allowed for the mind to stop its pacing, yet, should it not, also allowed for thoughts of contemplation and reflection. Lexa liked the quiet. It was warm, as well. Flames flickered from candles and torches and it was a heat to laze and slumber to. Clarke was quiet as she looked at the healing scars and her hands were warm as she  checked the stitching and re-wrapped bandages, clean. It was a few days short of three weeks, of moodiness, of simmering rebellion and resting, of Lexa being weak and Clarke helping with clothing, with sitting and moving and drinking and eating, of pain and frustration. The back, it holds so much. Lexa was ready to be done with it all. And then there was Clarke there, throughout it all, by her side. Lexa questioned it, was thankful for it, but it was torture of a different kind.

              “Why did you not leave with your people?”

              Those hands, warm and gentle, stopped, for a moment.

              “I wanted to stay, and you need a reasonable doctor.”

              “My wounds are healing well.”

              “The minute I’d leave you’d be out and no one would stop you. You shouldn’t pressure your body.”

              “I am fine, Clarke.”

              “Don’t lie to me, please.”

              “I have never.”

              And that was true. Lexa did not lie, not to Clarke. She was fine, but fine was the crux of so many things, it was a surface, a skin, quick to shed and quick to grow, easily meaning one thing in simplicity but more in complexity. Fine was _your presence is both a blessing and a curse,_ it was _I love you but,_ and was _you do not care for me, and yet,_ and more it was _I don’t understand why you’re here, unless._ Most basically, fundamentally, fine was _I am healing and I am alive,_ was _I am surviving, and that is fine_.

              Lexa was fine the same as anyone was, and Clarke knew that, knew all what fine was, and while she could not see, Clarke was contemplating. She had a furrow in her brow and her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip, and her hands rested on the bandages. Clarke could feel the wounds, her tender skin, could feel the cracks of a leader’s soul visible in physical form, touchable.

              “I have dreams, some nights. That you… that you broke, on the poll, or, when stitching you up you just… that you lost too much blood, and… I saw it,” Clarke swallowed, croaked, the images swirling, forming, the feelings evoked from them surfacing. “I saw you die after suffering and I felt alone.”

              A beat, maybe one, or two, and then an exhaled admission, “I was ready to die. I could have let myself.”

              Clarke could not imagine the pain, so long and prolonged; she could not imagine it, but understood it was there, was enough to want and be ready for such things. The moment was tentative, then, and Clarke moved around to stand in front of Lexa, finishing wrapping from the front, mindful of Lexa’s breasts. Some days she would blush, lightly, others she was too focused, too tense. She did not blush then, but she was not tense, and when Clarke finished, she did not move away.

              “You were ready to die, in that cage, too. You were ready to get ripped to pieces,” Clarke spoke, as she gazed at Lexa, non-repulsed, non-angered.

              It was the quietness, the peace. Nothing felt heavy then, and Lexa’s eyes darted away, unsure of what this moment was. “You were not ready.”

              “And the poll?”

              Outside Clarke was calm, probing, searching, but her heart was thundering and beating because she found herself wanting suddenly. It was those dreams. They had her waking and longing to hold Lexa, safe, warm, and assure she was alive, they had her loving more. But whenever she woke she could not reach out and touch Lexa to reassure herself, because they did not rest together. But Clarke wanted to, just for the reassurance, the peace. She was tired of just dreams and charged waking moments. She was tired of the fear, of the loneliness. She held her hands on the sternum of Lexa’s chest, and she did not move, and Lexa caught Clarke’s stare then and did not look away.

              “My people. Our people. I thought of… I thought of you, Clarke.”

              Lexa’s eyes were so big, so close, wide, vulnerable and honest. Clarke’s own darted between the two earths, her heart stuck in her throat, in her chest and her forehead leaned forwards to Lexa’s. She took a moment to breathe, consciously, a heavy yet light thing, the inhaling and exhaling of air. Their eyes had both closed at the contact, because the atmosphere was no longer tense, but tender, and it was delicate.

              “Clarke.”

              And there was hesitancy, there, a lace of it, unsure.

              “This isn’t a dream.”

              Lexa’s breathing hitched, “You hate me.”

              “You know that’s not true,” Clarke shook her head, not much, but enough, and Lexa’s forehead followed the small action as noses nudged.

              Lexa no longer felt like a prowling animal, but she felt scared, uncertain, because this was certainly not a dream. She spoke and her words were soft to the ears.

              “You do not…you do not care for me.”

              “ _Lexa_ ,” Clarke tried.

              “Clarke.”

               Just her name, sometimes, from Lexa’s mouth, her tongue. It can undo her.

              “I’ve cared for you all this time.”

               A moment, then:

               “Why are you crying, Clarke?”

               “Oh.”

               She hadn’t realised she was, they were a few silent tears. Lexa’s eyes were open now and they were so much closer. Clarke looked into them and then away and down, bowed her head a little, sniffed.

               “I…because… you were so close to – and your – your back, Lexa… I have nightmares that you – and,” Clarke shifted her head back, up to the ceiling with a sniffle, wiping the tears with one hand, the other touching Lexa. “And I dream of you and us, of what of you said, and you think it was just a dream but –”

               “It wasn’t.”

               “Huh?”

               “It wasn’t a dream,” Lexa cupped Clarke’s cheek, wiped a tear from her eye, and Clarke leaned into the touch, eye’s watching, adored. “I love you.”

               Clarke’s eyes shone blue daylight, wet, and her lips quirked a brief smile, genuine.

               “I’m not ready,” the blonde swallowed, “I don’t think I’ll ever be, Lexa. I’m broken.”

               “We both are, Clarke.”

               “Okay. Then slow, Lexa, because I’m still feeling a lot. I need… I need us, everything to be slow. But… we’re steady now. So long as you take care of yourself, okay?”

               “Clarke…”

               “I know, but we have peace now. You shouldn’t – there’s no need for you to hurt yourself.”

               “You would take care of me.”

               “You’re a horrible patient.”

               “This is real.”

               “It is.”

               “Ai hod yu in.”

               “Slow and steady,” Clarke breathed, nodded, as if she declared something resolute, factual and unchangeable.

               “Is that a Sky People’s saying? Slow and steady?”

               Clarke laughed, a short, melodious sound, and it felt and tasted like freedom, of life. It was light, to carry. She wanted more of that.

               “I guess.”

               Lexa hummed, content, to be so close to Clarke without the fear. Their foreheads rested and their eyes had closed a while before, then Lexa felt lips on hers, and she surrendered easily. Her lips moved slowly, gently – so similar to their kiss so long ago – and it was light and tender, brush strokes, and Lexa did not push. Because Clarke needed to breathe Lexa’s air to know she was alive, needed to kiss her because Clarke dreamt of never kissing those lips again, dreamt of them so bloody and cold and unmoving, and then she dreamt of them alive and on her skin and Clarke ached. She finished it more passionately then when it began, though tender still, the urgency and need having spurred her tongue. There would be more, of kissing, and further, in time. Her lips parted from Lexa’s gently and she did not move away.

               “You’re still mine?”

               “Always.”

               “I’m yours too.”

               Lexa kissed Clarke's cheek, the corner of her mouth, and held the blonde close, “I feel whole with you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, feelings? Go!
> 
> tumblr: darlingheda

**Author's Note:**

> now i know 318 mountain died of radiation in the mountain, but early on it was dante or cage that said their total pipulation was 380, so im using that total, including the mountain men that died outside or from other means but still died from the war none the less. so if anyone was curious to the number.
> 
> if you read it all, thank you! because it was really just... angst, kinda, and angst can be such a downer :P i think my pattern with oneshots will mostly be angst, fluff, angst, fluff, maybe the occasional angst AND fluff. who knows? 
> 
> tumblr: darlingheda


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